No Thought, All Action
by shirleypositive72
Summary: Inspired by the cover photo. "Dean thinks she shoots like a girl. When she asks for a lesson, he teaches her more than how to aim." Written a couple years ago, I've just rediscovered it. Set pre-show.
A bright clear day. Hot as hell, but that's the Midwest in the summer. Perfect day to get in some target practice. You can never be too good with a gun. Dean's been watching her shoot her snub nose, the one she keeps in her boot. Good eye, nice cluster on the target. Leaning back onto the open trunk of the Impala out here in the middle of nowhere, he slowly loads his shotgun, planning to see what she can do with it.

He likes this girl. She's smart, quick on her feet, follows directions. Hot as fuck. He's not sure she's a Hunter, though. Not yet, anyway. Maybe never; who knows? She has to shed the hesitation before he can really trust her to have his back. She has the aim, the motivation, the drive. She just doesn't have the cold-blooded ruthlessness yet. She's healed well from the injuries she got in the ghoul fight, but she doesn't seem to be rock solid yet. It wouldn't be awful having her around for a while, she just needs to toughen up.

"You shoot like a girl."

"What?" The look on her face reminds him that it is never a wise idea to piss off a woman holding a gun.

"Well, you shoot like a very well-trained girl, so that's okay," he teases with a smile.

The smile does her in, and she can't really be mad. That's how she likes him. Just like that. All joking and sun-kissed, with a weapon in his hand. He just looks right. Lazily loading the gun, silently judging the targets in the field in front of them. The shotgun shell in his mouth is teasing her, though. Taunting, tantalizing. She's been tempted by his every move, look, word since jumping into his Impala a few weeks ago. Bleeding and broken after a particularly violent ghoul hunt, she heard the car power itself around the corner and climbed in the open passenger door with no hesitation. What could have been worse than what she was running from?

"What do you mean like a girl, Dean? Explain. How do I fix it?"

She's so eager, he thinks. So ready to do well, to please him. He hates it. And he can't get enough.

"I don't know, Katie. Just, shit, like a girl. You hesitate."

"No, I don't. I think."

"Exactly."

"So, what? No thought, all action?"

"Now you get it, baby."

That sounds good, she thinks. The endearment tossed so casually is received and held close. It means things to her he didn't intend. She doesn't care. She must have done something right. She tries so hard to be what he needs, what he wants. But how can she take a life, any life, without thought?

"How do you do that?"

"Point, aim, be sure it ain't me, and fire. That's it."

"But that's not it," she insists, shaking her head.

"There is never time for second guessing, Kate. Later, though, when we're safe, when the people are safe, when the job is done, that's when you can think about it." He sighs. It was so much easier before Sam left for school, or when he was hunting with his father before he struck out on his own. He never had to explain how not to feel. "That's when you deal with any doubts about your choices, any guilt about what you do. If you can tell yourself you did what you had to do - and believe it - then this is the life for you. If you can't . . ."

She hears what he doesn't say. The unspoken warning to get out now if she can't handle it. She hears it and ignores it. This is her life now, no matter what Dean Winchester thinks. No matter that her reasons are hate and revenge and not some noble quest to make the world safe. Reasons as good as any, the same as most of the people who do this. Everyone has a story.

"I can tell myself that, Dean. I know it's true. It's why I can do it all over again the next day."

"Okay, then."

They stand there in silence, the awkward kind. Neither is comfortable with the seriousness of the conversation any longer. He said what he had to say, she listened, it's done.

"So I shoot like a well-trained girl, Winchester?" They both laugh, relieved that someone moved the subject back into their normal way of talking - easy, funny, flirty. "Care to challenge me?"

"With a handgun? Uh, no. I think I'd win, but I can't guarantee it. And if you tell anyone I said that, I'll lie."

"Okay, macho. Then what?"

He snaps up the shotgun with one hand and gives it to her. "This."

"Don't like working with these. The kick knocks me down. I'm small, Dean."

"Short," he snorts.

"Yeah, I am. Don't like these."

"Sometimes it's the best tool for the job, though. You need to be ready to use it if you need to."

"Shit, fine."

She brings the gun up to her shoulder, shifts her stance, and fires. She hits the target but blows her ass toward the ground in the process. He gives a glimpse of his lightning-fast, action-ready reflexes, and catches her inches from the hard packed dirt.

"Whoaaa! You weren't kidding, huh?"

"I tried to tell you," she reminds him, straightening, embarrassed. "I don't think I can do it."

"You can. You just need to plant your feet. Turn around."

He moves behind her with the intention of showing her how to fire the damn shotgun and remain standing, when they both realize they've stepped right into a romantic comedy cliche. The let's-pretend-I'm-teaching-you-something-by touching-you-intimately-before-I-kiss-you moment in every rom-com ever.

Fuck it.

He does it anyway.

He's wanted to kiss her since the day she slid her ass into his car.

"Higher on your shoulder," he says quietly in the back of her neck, stepping closer, running his hand down her arm to adjust her grip. She feels her skin growing warmer. "Widen your feet apart," he whispers into her ear, gliding his fingers down the outside of her thigh, moving his knee between her legs. Her breathing speeds up, catches in her chest. "Aim, fire."

She does, and the kick pushes her tighter against him. She feels him solidly behind her and needs to feel more. Now.

"No thought, all action," she breathes.

"Now you get it, baby."

She tosses the gun, turns in his arms. He's waiting for her, holds her tightly and takes her mouth. He kisses exactly the way she thought he would. Rough and demanding and in complete control. He tastes of sweat, and beer, and the musky hint of black powder from the shell he absent-mindedly held while loading earlier. She thinks he must be the only man to taste this way. So him. So Dean.

He bends to grab her ass, such a fine ass, and pulls her up, forcing her legs to wrap around him. He's given this moment a thought or two, and she more than lives up to the half-formed fantasy he'd created. For once he'd tried to do the responsible thing and keep his hands to himself, keep his cool, keep his pants on. He was never going to succeed.

He backs up and his legs hit the hood of the car. Thank God, because he needs to get closer to her, needs to feel her tight little body grinding into him. Leaning back, he feels her plant her knees astride him on the hood and kisses her deeper, harder. No longer needing to hold her up, he moves one hand inside her shirt. She gasps when she feels the callouses of fingers scrape her nipple.

"Dean, we're out in the open here," she manages to say against his lips, then bites the bottom one.

"In the middle of no-fucking-where. It's fine."

"No thought," she says, reaching to his pants, dragging the zipper down.

"All action," he says behind gritted teeth.

He stands again, turning them around, sitting her on the edge of the hood. His two favorite things in the world, sex and his car. It is a good day in the life of Dean Winchester when he can combine the two. HIs jeans fall open, slide down to his hip bones. She takes full advantage of of the offer and palms him. Tightening her grip at the sound of his sudden breathy groan, she slowly moves up and into his boxers.

"Oh, shit, Kate." He needs to feel her, touch her like she's touching him. He pops the button open on her pants and she leans back so he can finish the job. Standing with her booted feet on the front bumper, she lets him pull her tight jeans down her legs, taking her panties with them. They only make it off the end of one hastily unbooted foot before she has her legs tight around him again.

"Always wearing the jacket, Dean," she teases as her hands make their way up his sides. She simply has to feel the muscles, his abs, his chest.

"It's where I keep these, baby," he chuckles, pulling out a trusty Trojan. He tears the foil with his teeth, then hands the package to her. She rolls it on with expert ease, and he knows he's hit the jackpot.

She can tell he's a thoughtful lover. He doesn't rush her more than he can help, no matter how fast this has moved. He teases her, touches her, makes sure she's ready, and he'd probably spend as much time in foreplay as she wanted. But she doesn't want any more. Now. She wants him now.

"I want you, Dean. I need you," she tells him, giving him all the permission he needs to take her.

He pushes her down, holds her hips, and enters her in one slow, steady stroke. He gives her a moment to adjust to him, and only moves when her legs tighten and he feels the pressure of her heels on the backs of thighs.

"Damn, you feel good," he says, lost in her.

"Harder, Dean."

He grins, and grants the request. He watches her body as she moves with him, because of him. He watches her face as she gives in to the delayed pleasure. It is honestly unlike either of them to deny themselves the things they want for even a day, much less the week they had managed to wait. If they thought about it, they might realize that even the few days they'd waited, the anticipation, made this better. But neither is thinking about that now.

She feels his rhythm becoming erratic, hears his breathing become ragged, feels her own grip on control slipping. He's hanging on for her, and he knows she's about to come. When it hits her, when the pleasure erupts from the inside out, she struggles to keep her eyes open, to keep his face in view. She knows he's been watching her, now she wants to watch him.

And it is so worth it. The sight is spectacular.

When it's over, when their limbs are untangled, when their clothes are back on, when the sweat on their faces is from the dry heat and not the hot sex, they smile at each other.

"No thought, all action," she says with a smile.

"Now you get it, baby," he smirks.

Yeah, it wouldn't be awful having her around for a while.


End file.
